Ghost Stories
by 42gramsofspite
Summary: DP oneshots from both the 100 Themes Challenge and Phanniemay; no pairings, probably mostly angst; character and genre tags reflect the newest chapter only. Latest: History is made of moments, of split-second decisions and knock-on effects. So, if the dice fell another way…?
1. Silvertongue

**Silvertongue**

_Theme #53: Keeping a Secret | Angst | 1056 words | Danny F. _

According to his friends and family, Danny is a terrible liar. Truth is, he's lying about that.

-x-

_What, these? Um, well, long story short, I kinda tripped over a bench..._

The lies slip off your tongue like liquid helium and the faint embarrassment you inject into your tone is flawless. It's a perfectly plausible reason for the black eye and the nosebleed, especially given your track record of clumsiness.

_Yeah, I don't know how I managed it either..._

Oh yes, Danny Fenton is the clumsiest person anyone could ever hope to meet, and it's all perfectly on purpose - sheer clumsiness is such a terribly useful excuse for injury. Of course, you can't use it for everything - if nothing else, that would start looking suspicious pretty quick. No, overuse is to be avoided at all costs. You usually reserve it for when you haven't had the time to think of anything better. Quick-fire lies might be difficult for some, but for you it's second nature - almost literally. You're good at sheepish bemusement.

_Okay, okay, I skipped detention so I could go to the fair with Sam and Tuck._

Misdirection is a large part of your arsenal, too; one of your best. Concede doing something bad - but never _that_ bad - and they'd focus on that and forget how Sam was out of town for a few days and Tucker was home sick. By the time they thought to check their facts, Sam would be back and Tuck would be up and about with only the occasional sniff to evidence his illness.

_Don't be too mad? We never got to go last year - not all three of us - and college is only a year away..._

Ah, the classic guilt-trip. Perfectly tailored to pluck at the heartstrings of parents who work nigh 24/7 and feel they don't spend enough time with their precious children. Practically guaranteed to lighten any sentence, but to be used sparingly. They'd only believe you so many times, as you've learnt from The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

_'Look, I'm fine. __Absolutely fine... _

_...Okay. No I'm not. I think my nose is broken, and I might've sprained my wrist..._

Similar to misdirection, but far more useful. This was lying by telling the truth: start with point-blank denial, but give in to demand and let out a few rare genuine facts. This formed the basis for every other tactic you employ - you can't lie to someone who believes you untrustworthy. Build trust through telling truths, make them believe that you will always tell them where it hurts, where you've been, what you were doing. Belief is the biggest part of lying - you learned that years ago.

_I don't know why you're here, Plasmius, and I don't care - get **out**._

It's all an act. It has been since you stepped foot in the Portal. You still pretend that your nightmares aren't haunted by your own dying screams. Act like the reason you've never removed your jumpsuit isn't because of the eerie fractals on your chest. You pretend to loathe your 'dear uncle', feign pure, undiluted hatred in his presence - oh, you hated him before, before you became such a good actor, it's so easy for you to emulate it now. You're so genuine even the great deceiver is fooled. He thinks you're weak, blinded by emotion. You're happy to let him.

_I'm trying to help!_

Ironic how your parents have a better grasp on the psychology of ghosts - or at least, _your_ ghost - than anyone would care to believe. Even the ghosts. Even Vlad, who should know better. But then, your accidents were so different - maybe he isn't so in touch with his ghost as you are. Maybe he's not so dead. Maybe he doesn't feel like a dislocated consciousness, attached to a hollow shell of a body, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Maybe it's just you. That's a strange thought.

_I love you guys._

Odd to feel so alone. Like you're the only sane man, the only one who understands. You know that other people have thoughts, feelings, desires, knowledge, you know that intimately - it's not as if you've never overshadowed anyone. But for all the minds you've known, you've never known one quite like that which your own has become. It's the ghost in you, you decide. That's why your head feels so clear. Ghosts don't have emotions; that's what you were always told.

_Aw man, I forgot the thermos-_

You think it's the human side of you that helps you fit in so well. In the time before - before the Portal, before the ghosts, before everything - you felt so _much_. The memories you have from then are strange, distorted, entirely subjective. Things seem more beautiful, more ugly, time flows quicker. There are gaps. It's a human memory, you now understand. That's what most human minds are like. You can't imagine how you'd coped. Well. That's not true; you strive to emulate that as much as you can. Live up to expectations.

_Yeah, I was up all night...again. Didn't have time…_

Your friends think you should be tired, no, _exhausted,_ after spending so much of your time fighting ghosts. You oblige them; you pretend to sleep in class, do badly on tests, accept every detention with a rueful smile. It doesn't matter that your memory is boundless, sharp and efficient as a knife edge. Danny Fenton was never any good at remembering facts and figures, and you're still Danny Fenton, right? Of course. So you forget things. Exactly as many things as you did before. You're nothing if not consistent.

_I'm still human, though._

You haven't spoken to anyone about this. You don't know why, but you don't want your friends to find out. Maybe it's some lingering worry from your human days - you don't want them to worry - but maybe it's your sense of self-preservation. You don't know what they'd do if they knew - seal you in a thermos, bury you six feet under, where your body ought to be? Maybe. It's not worth the risk, in your opinion. If there's one human sentiment that still lives on within you, it's the desire to survive. The desire to _be_, against all odds. Something about what you've become scares you witless. But...you're a ghost. Ghosts don't feel...do they?

_I'm okay._

You find it funny, really, how even the few who know you best still can't tell when you're lying.


	2. A Rush of Blood to the Head

**A Rush of Blood to the Head**

_Theme #15: Silence | Angst/Tragedy | 2031 words | Danny F., Sam M._

**(warning for dissection)**

He always was too forgiving for his own good.

-x-

_Oh, I'm gonna buy this place and start a fire_  
><em>Stand here until I fill all your heart's desires<em>  
><em>Because I'm gonna buy this place and see it burn,<em>  
><em>And do back the things it did to you in return.<em>

_- _Coldplay _-_

-x-

She screws the top back on the empty jerrycan and tries to take a deep, stabilising breath, but ends up choking instead. She had always liked the smell of petrol; before, he'd often remarked on how strange she was for that, in that light-hearted, joking tone of his - the same one he used when making terrible puns at the dinner table. Oh, how they'd all groaned! They'd even begun to wonder if _that_ was his ghostly obsession; knowing him, it was entirely possible. They'd never got a straight answer out of him - just that stupid evasive smile. She mis-

_No. Stop._ She has a job to do. There is no time for nostalgia. Not yet.

She works loose the cap of the next jerrycan.

-x-

_Christmas had never been a good time for Danny Fenton, even despite the Truce, and the whole Ghost Writer Incident, and having moved out. Maybe it was some sort of curse. Frankly, he wouldn't be surprised if it was. Take the previous year: he'd been visiting friends in New York over the holiday period, and lo and behold the Apocalypse came. Again. For the third time in six months._

_It was getting ridiculous, even for him._

_All things considered, he really shouldn't have expected this one to be much better. But...it was. The morning he spent in bed, as always; it was the only time of year that he could properly catch up on sleep, and as such he spent about twelve hours doing so. After he'd woken up, he'd gone to the Ghost Zone Christmas Party, something he'd come to really enjoy over the years. Sure, it was kinda weird, hanging out with people who regularly made attempts on what remained of your life, but once you got past the whole 'world domination' thing, they were good company. He'd been sad to leave this year; nobody had walked into his mistletoe trap yet, and he'd been angling for some good quality blackmail. But alas, dinner at the Fentonworks beckoned and he'd lingered as long as he could. He only hoped Dani didn't fall for it…_

-x-

It's done. She kicks the empty jerrycans into a pile in the front room. She will leave no fingerprints. At the door, she peels off the petrol-soaked hazmat and drops that to the floor too. She wouldn't mind staying so much, but he wouldn't want that for her. He'd say it was a waste. She spares one last glance at the suit before turning away. She walks three paces, fumbles in her pockets for the matches and, cursing her gloves, brings out the box and a single white firelighter.

She strikes a match, waits for the flame to grow, and lobs it through the open door. The reaction is almost immediate; a fierce glow spreads rapidly through the room. She retreats to the opposite side of the road, but no further.

She has to see this.

-x-

_They were all together again this year. Well, almost. Sam had been dragged halfway across the world by her parents - despite her protests of being twenty two and how they _couldn't do this_ - and Dani, though in town, couldn't be included due to the whole Phantom thing; eight years on, and the elder Fentons still hadn't a clue. He'd promised her the whole of Boxing Day, though, and she'd been just about satisfied._

_Tucker was there, for once taking a break from his beloved job; Jazz was there, one last visit before the final push until she got her degree; the Fentons themselves, who'd be jetting off in a week to Moscow for a lecture on the nature of ectoplasm; hell, even Valerie and her Dad had been invited. Danny had been looking forward to it since the arrangements were made._

_Dinner was surprisingly successful, compared to the usual. The turkey hadn't been reanimated for once, and the only things that glowed were the sprouts, and nobody but Jack Fenton liked those anyway. Pudding came and went, and still no earth-shattering disaster occurred; truly a Christmas miracle. After a minor squabble over the TV remote, Danny began to properly relax._

_It couldn't last, of course. He had never been that lucky._

-x-

Hours later, and the flames roar ever higher. A crowd has formed; they watch the inferno with a savage satisfaction, its orange glow drowning out their own. They refuse passage to the firefighters; they will see this place in ashes, come what may.

She starts as a cold hand grips her shoulder, looks up into a face that is so familiar and yet so _not_, it's painful. But she won't be waylaid by the grief, not now. Not until it's gone. She sees that same broken determination in her companion's face, and she realises how difficult it will be for her friend to look in the mirror and see _his_ face staring back, forever. She offers a supportive hand and an all too understanding expression. It's hard, but they'll manage. They always do.

Two grown women hold hands and watch the house burn.

-x-

_This year's misfortune arrived a few hours later, in the form of a news bulletin; nobody had gone home yet, happy to stay and watch cheesy Christmas films in the company of friends and family. In a break between movies, there was a quick news update; one about the most recent ghost attack, and the damage caused by it. Danny cringed; it had been a messy one. He still had the limp to prove it._

_Of course, this had sparked a new topic of conversation. He tried to ignore their comments about how Phantom was clearly faking the 'hero' act and how he obviously didn't care a jot about the local populace, but Danny couldn't stomach the abuse for long when his entire lower leg throbbed painfully at every heartbeat, reminding him every second of exactly how much he _did_ care._

_So he joined in. And twenty minutes later, he stomped out of the house, remembering exactly why he'd never told his parents anything since he was fourteen. He rounded a corner, checked for onlookers and, coast clear, became his alter ego. There was nothing like a late-night flight to calm the nerves._

_Unfortunately for him, the Fentons thought the same of ghost hunting. The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was, "Don't worry, Mads, we'll show Danny we're right! Evil runs in their ectoplasm!"_

-x-

Dawn comes and goes, and the crowd has only gotten larger. The house had collapsed in on itself long ago, but still they watch the smouldering ruins. The ghosts, friends and enemies alike, stand like sentinels. They are accustomed to grudges, they live for retribution and closure; this is the only revenge he has allowed them, and they will enjoy it. He always was too forgiving for his own good.

The few mortals among the silent multitude sit together on the curb, energy exhausted but still mostly awake. Between them and the house, not one glowing figure blocks their view; it is only common courtesy. Five's hands are linked, each gripping tightly to the other as if their lives depended on it. The sixth sits apart from them, his empty blue eyes fixed unblinking on the rubble. Lines mar his face and the dark bags indicate weeks of sleepless nights; age has finally found him.

The bespectacled redhead in the other group beckons him, for the hundredth time since his arrival; he doesn't move. He doesn't deserve any degree of comfort.

He should have been there.

He was not.

-x-

_It was Vlad that found him, in the end._

_Somehow he'd escaped the straps - they'd never know exactly - and rolled himself off the table onto the cold, hard floor, spattered with his own ectoplasm. Face down on the concrete, he laid shuddering, focusing all his remaining energies on not changing back._

_Vlad wasted little time lifting the boy - well, he was hardly a boy anymore, was he? - back onto the table, right-side up so gravity could keep his insides, inside. Plasmius ignored the boy's complaints - perhaps putting him back on the table where he'd spent hours being vivisected was not the kindest thing he could have done, but he needed to assess the damage, something he could not do from the floor. Besides, he was trying not to think about what must have happened; now was not the time for rage. Daniel needed urgent medical atten- oh._

_Oh._

_Maybe not._

-x-

By the time the sun has reached its peak, most of the crowd has dispersed, and the firefighters are finally allowed near the burning hot cinders of the house. It is just the one house that they need clean up; the fire was contained expertly by select members of the crowd. The ghosts have no quarrel with the neighbours; they want justice, not destruction.

The six mortals on the pavement is reduced to five; one, the original one, kneels by the ruins, scooping ashes into a small tin. Her knees are padded, protected from the heat, but her gloves were shed long ago and her palms are blistered and burnt. The attendant firemen have tried to pull her away - it's too dangerous, they say, she could get hurt - but always one of the remaining ghosts blocks their path. She is already hurt. They are _all_ hurt. And they have waited long for this day. The wounds on her hands will heal easily enough; those on her heart, less so.

When at last she rises from the ashes, the last dregs of the crowd depart together, supporting each other as best they can. Six humans, six ghosts. Silent as his grave.

-x-

_By the time everyone important and immediately contactable had arrived, Daniel had been moved to the more comfy sofa upstairs and swathed in warm blankets; it was the least Vlad could do, and Daniel's friends didn't need the extra trauma. Danielle, Jasmine and Tucker arrived together, within ten minutes of the call; between them, they had probably broken every rule of the road there was. They rushed to Daniel's side, not waiting for an explanation; Plasmius had no desire to tell the story twice, anyway._

_Valerie arrived later, not as pressed; not much later, granted, but late enough for the sobbing to have started, for the blame to be mislaid and threats declared. Vlad tries to explain gently to Valerie how, yes, that is Phantom on the sofa, and yes, all assembled have come to say goodbye. How… yes, Phantom is dying, and yes, this involves you, dear Valerie, because Phantom never was 'just' a ghost. Just say goodbye, Valerie, you will not get another chance._

_Daniel, to his credit, was taking it all very well. He smiled at those who had come to send him off, and only the distance in his dulling eyes and the green stain beginning to show through the blankets gave away the fact that he was fading quickly. He told them he was okay, that he was sorry for being so careless, and when Jasmine started making death threats towards the monsters who had done this to him, he caught her wrist with a rapidly weakening hand, and told her,_

dont. they dont need to know. i dont want them to live with this. it's my fault. my fault. dont hurt them. let them… let them live. please.

_He smiled a sickly grin, showing off teeth stained green by the ectoplasm he'd been coughing up since Vlad had found him; before, someone might have joked that he sounded like he was coughing up his internal organs. They all knew that wasn't possible anymore._

please. my dying wish.

-x-

It's just her, right now. They had decided to take it in turns. She's dressed all in black, as per usual, but today it seems darker. It's only right.

She gently places a small tin beside the grave. Her hands are bandaged tightly and she hasn't taken her painkillers, but she ignores the sting; it's not important right now.

"It's done, Danny," says Sam. "It's over. You can rest in peace now."

The grave does not respond.

It never had.

-x-

**A/N:** _a few little clarifications._ What's the deal with the ghosts? _The ghosts are explicitly bound by Danny's dying wish to neither hurt or inform his parents of what happened to him - what they did to him. Years later, they're gone and finally, finally the ghosts can get their revenge. Because Danny was never a bad guy to them. A spoilsport, maybe, but not much worse than that._

Why does Sam have the honour of burning down the Fentonworks? _She was one of Danny's closest friends, but she was far, far away when he died. It only seemed right that she strike the match._

The hell did Vlad come from?_ It's Christmas; I don't think he'd pass up a chance to wish the love of his life and his future evil apprentice happy holidays. Maybe he was compelled to come by the Christmas curse, only Danny's Christmas was already kinda ruined…_

_Written and posted on Tumblr just in time for Valentine's day, as this is probably the closest I'll ever get to writing romance. Oh, and one last little fyi: this is now where I'll be uploading my DP oneshots prompted by the 100TC; expect a few more crosspostings from Tumblr over the next few days._


	3. The Moon is Down

**The Moon Is Down**

_Theme #13: Freedom | PMd1: Space | Angst | 880 words | Dan P., Clockwork_

The skies are black. Where did the stars go?

-x-

The last thing he sees is a bright, swirling light, sucking him down, down into the cold metallic depths of his old self's ancient-but-not thermos. All he knows after that is that it's dark, and it's cramped, and that sometimes he hears voices. Once, he tried to escape, tried to reform his essence into something that was not this weak and useless mist. He succeeded, but not for long - long enough for some of his wrath to return and for him to make a dent, he thinks.

How long ago was that? Moments, months, millennia - more? There is no time, here down in the deepest darkness. There aren't even the dimmest of stars for him to count the years by, and on some level he yearns for them. He remembers - faintly, fuzzily - when he was young and not long on Earth, and yet so ardently wished to leave it. He does not remember much of his time Before, but that passion for the stars still remains, and he cherishes it. He was not allowed to keep much else besides it, and the anger and the pain.

In those ten years Since, he has rampaged and destroyed all over the globe - he is very well-travelled. He is dimly aware that upon going so far from home, you are meant to come back with vivid, happy memories and souvenirs or something, yet all that he brought home was a few new stains on his jumpsuit and a few months' worth of blurry, red-tinged memory.

Except one. One trip, one journey that has been burned into his mind since the night it happened.

He'd been flying back from South America, only passing through; the destruction beneath him reminded him of how he'd already come this way. He'd happened to look up, at some point over the Atacama Desert, and he'd almost dropped out of the sky, hit with the full force of his old self's love of the beyond. He'd alighted on some tall rock formation, and stared in wonder at the bright band of light spanning the wide, wide sky as memories returned to him, as faint and vague as if viewed through frosted glass - _yes_, he thought, _that is the Milky Way, and over there the Southern Cross_… He remembers that,_ oh_, this is _that_ Atacama - one place on Earth he had wanted to visit since he was six years old.

That night shines brighter in his mind than any other, and in this lightless place, he clings to it. Perhaps, one day, he will see them again.

And then, and then there is a voice, from outside. Loud, compared to how quiet his universe has become. The thermos is moved - it has been moved many times before, but he thinks that some time has passed since the last. And suddenly there is light - blinding bright, searing his very being with its intensity. He cringes away, clutches at the few dim shadows that remain, and hears a voice, louder than a thunderclap, address him.

"Daniel," it says, and it sounds like how he would imagine the Voice of God. Well, perhaps not; he would not have pictured the Almighty so tired or exasperated. "Daniel," it says, "I do not have all day. You will come out now, or I will take my leave. Goodness knows I deserve it."

He hesitates but a moment before allowing his gaseous shape to float freely out of the thermos and reform. He blinks, once, twice, three times, but remains near-blinded by Clockwork's white glow. Darkness surrounds them; the old ghost is the only source of light he can see.

"I trust you remember me," says the Master of Time, and the prisoner nods slowly; he is not sure how to speak anymore. "Good, good. And I suppose you must be wondering why you have been released?" Another nod. The violet-robed ghost hums lightly before continuing. "I told you - the other you - that you would not be imprisoned forever, and if the result of that was a brighter future for humankind, then so be it - but I do not lie. You are free to go, Daniel, though I do not think you will enjoy it." He smiles, a bitter, twisted smile that make the freedman shudder. He has done a lot in his life to merit such a sentiment, but never has the realisation that he has enemies ever worried him so. He is, after all, indestructible - no bullet or tank or nuclear missile could take him down, and, oh, have they tried. But that smile - that tiny, insignificant smile - is what makes him quake in his boots, because he is, after all,_ indestructible_.

Clockwork spares the other ghost one last glance, and vanishes; the former prisoner gets the impression that he will never see the Master of Time again. He looks around uneasily, willing his night vision to return now that the brilliantly glowing ghost is gone.

Time passes - a moment, a month, a millennium, or more - and still his eyes do not clear. He can tell from the lack of gravity and from the temperature that he is in space, but the skies are black, and remain so resolutely. He wonders, neither for the last time nor the first, _Where did the stars go?_


	4. Ten Thousand Promises

**Ten Thousand Promises, Ten Thousand Ways To Lose**

_Theme #14: Inevitable | PMd2: Fav. Episode | Angst/Dark | 768 words | Danny F., Dan P._

He is inevitable.

-x-

Those words, those three simple words, they haunted him for years. Not even the Box Ghost could top their resilience - where he would only appear a half-dozen times per week, those words lingered always in his mind, just waiting for the moment when he exhausted all distractions. They conjured up sights and smells that only a seasoned veteran should be able to name, not some pathetic fourteen-year-old like him.

He spends his nights locked in terror, watching the gentle flow of red rivers over cobblestone on repeat like in some stupid horror movie, the scent of burning flesh filling his nose and an acrid taste to the air that swirls around him, almost tangible in its pungency. He hears his own voice - twisted and warped and older, but his - hiss through the roaring flames and distant screams, the three words weighted so much more heavily than 'I love you'. Those are an admission, a reassurance, spoken with a sunset backdrop. These, oh,_ these _are a promise - complete and arrogant assurance that all these broken buildings will one day come to be, and that there is nothing - _nothing!_ - that could possibly stop it.

Clockwork has guaranteed him that the future is wrong, and that that timeline has been averted, but there's something in the old ghost's voice and in the way he keeps his distance that sets the younger on edge. He is being lied to, and he knows it.

Years pass, and life does not get much better for the Phantom of Amity Park. His insomnia is finally catching up with him - all those nights he spent awake, trying to keep the nightmares - the memories - at bay. He drops out of school, but he is not much the better for it - it only gives him more opportunities to observe the looks of disappointment on his parents' faces.

He misses them, though, when they are gone, though perhaps that is an understatement. There is a hole in his heart that they once occupied, and not even destroying the ghostly culprit could refill it.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, Casper High fell victim to a school shooting - fourteen injured, but only three dead. Thank god it wasn't worse, people whispered to each other, but to him there could have been no greater tragedy. The Phantom never arrived - he had no early warning for dangerous humans, and the first he learned of it was a chance phonecall to Sam, answered by the wrong person

And suddenly, his life felt empty. There were no more mad inventions, no more movie marathons or game nights. It was just him and his sister, and he knew it pained her to stay - she was wasting time, wasting her life here in Amity Park, when she should have been at Yale or Harvard or wherever she would be best. No matter how many times she told him that it would pain her more to leave, he would not believe her. His world and future had crumbled, yes, but that did not mean that hers had to as well. They came to a compromise; when he turned eighteen, she would leave.

And then, abruptly, her future was gone. A routine kind of accident, they said. You see 'em, oh, a hundred times a year in these parts, just on this stretch of road alone.

He threw himself into his self-appointed duty; it was all he had left, and he couldn't face the ghosts of home. Reporters commented anxiously on their saviour's sudden aggression and violence, and postulated its provenance. No answer ever presented itself, and soon it was the least of their worries. Phantom's surgical precision in taking out ghosts became messier and messier, until one day he forgot to care about the collateral damage.

And now, long after that so unfortunate a string of deaths, he finds himself watching from above an all too familiar scene. There is Valerie - dear Valerie, who not once has given up on eradicating him; her obsession is almost flattering - aiming a large gun at a black and white figure in a glowing net while two others leap to his defence.

A manic grin spreads across his face, and he realises that it does not take a stint with the ghost gauntlets to make a monster of a broken boy. Only time.

He blasts the Red Huntress away, and says, "Actually, that was me."

He'll play his part for now, but in the end, he will win. It is inevitable.

(And if killing his past self has the side effect of destroying this whole timeline, well, all the better.)

-x-

**A/N:**_ ...and then the timeline is reset, and Danny suffers the grief of a series of unrelated deaths, and starts destroying things, and Clockwork sends for a past!Danny to defeat him, and that Danny dies, and then the timeline is reset… _


	5. Autohaunted

**Autohaunted**

_Theme #69: Annoyance | PMD9: Time Travel | 2218 words | Humour | Danny F._

Danny has 99 problems, and he's every single one.

-x-

"…then he said, 'I'm sorry, I don't get it.'"

The sounds of involuntary laughter carried clearly over the headphones and Danny grinned, blasting another enemy to kingdom come as he did so. Beside him, Tuck and Sam - no, sorry, _FryerTuck and Chaos_ - took out a few more. They were well on their way to the end of the level and doing pretty well, but all the same Danny was glad he'd decided not to actually go into the game this time; they weren't entirely sure what would happen if he was shot in the virtual world, but frankly he didn't want to find out.

_"Hey, Sam, Danny, over there - I think that's the Key!"_

_"Where?"_

_"By that thing over there."_

"Gee, that was informative, Tuck."

_"You know what I meant, Danny. Just look where I'm facing."_

_"Oh, I see it!_

"I don't."

_"Danny, you're facing the wrong way."_

"I'm looking in the same direction you are!"

_"You're not," _said Sam, ever-helpful. _"Are you lagging again? Try opening your inventory."_

"I really don't see-" he started, before being cut off by a violent shiver spreading through his body and culminating in a puff of frigid air from his mouth. "Ugh, sorry guys, I gotta bail - carry on without me."

_"Your parents?"_

"I wish, they went out shopping a few hours ago. My day job beckons."

_"Who is it this time?"_

"Dunno, we'll see. I'll be back on later."

_"If you're sure you don't need backu-"_

"I'll be fine, Sam. Just get that Key, okay?"

_"Alright. Bye, Danny."_

_"Yeah, good luck."_

"Thanks, guys," he said, logging out of the game and shutting the lid of his laptop. No point wasting power.

He sighed as he let the silver rings wash away his black hair and blue eyes, hoping dearly that it wasn't the Box Ghost. Again. For the fifth time today.

So, where was it? He'd wasted enough time that it could be a block away by now - but no, the cold feeling in his chest hadn't lessened in the slightest. It was still in the house. A new ghost, maybe? The regulars rarely lingered anymore. So maybe it wasn't the Box Gh-

_"SHIT!__"_ came an oddly familiar voice, loud enough to be heard at even this distance. Apparently this profane ghost had discovered the reason the habitués never stuck around - Fenton household security had reached new levels of ridiculousness as of the last upgrade. Sure, it made living in the house more dangerous than provoking a mother grizzly bear, but in Danny's mind, the expressions the ghostly trespassers made as they were confronted by enough ectoguns to equip the entire American army were absolutely worth every close call.

Turning human again to avoid the assorted lasers, spinning blades, death rays and other varied weaponry, Danny sprinted downstairs and into the basement - he wouldn't miss this for the _world_. As he sped down the steps, however, he couldn't help the scowl that spread across his face - there, cornered by a multitude of shiny whirring ectoguns, was an all-too familiar face; one he saw every day without fail.

"Amorpho, we've talked about this: I let you come and go, you don't cause trouble and you don't impersonate me."

Apparently noticing the halfa for the first time, the ghost let out a sigh of relief. "Oh thank god, now would you please-" he dodged a white-hot beam of energy "-deactivate the security before I get fried?"

"Drop the disguise, and the guns go away."

"Disguise? This isn't a- ah, _fuck_, that hurt - just turn the goddamn thing off, okay?"

"Not until you stop being me."

"Well that's gonna be diff- _fuck!_ -cult, isn't it?"

"I don't have time for this, Amorpho. Drop the act and you can go, alright?"

"This isn't an act! I'm you from- ow! - the future!"

"Yeah, right. Turn human, then."

"I can't!"

"Well, _obviously_, because you're not me. Just do what I asked and you won't get shot."

"Are you even listening to me?" screeched the not-Phantom as he dodged another blast. Danny winced at the volume; "I am you! From the future! Guess what happens when you get old?! Just - fucking _hell_,_ why is this so hard for you to believe?!_"

"If you were me from the future, you'd know _exactly_ why I don't believe you're me."

"Oh, come on, we stopped that from happening when we retook that test!"

Danny frowned and said carefully, "The test?"

"Oh, don't tell me you haven't done the whole time-travel-y bit yet-_ shit!_ - would you _please_ turn that thing off!"

"If you're me, then tell me something only _I_ know. Something I haven't even told Sam and Tucker. Then I'll turn it off."

"Secretly I used t- _ah!_ - to be a massive fan of the Ninja of Norrisville, okay? Guns, off, now, _please?!_"

Not quite convinced - a decent hacker could gain access to his Internet history with relative ease - but certainly ready to listen, Danny placed his palm on one of the control panels and typed a quick command. Immediately the guns vanished back where they'd come from, leaving only the scorch marks as evidence that they'd ever been there. The other Phantom alighted on the floor and performed a quick once-over - no significant damage, it seemed - before facing Danny properly.

"Used to be?" Danny questioned, eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, until I found out he's just a massive dork."

"Wait, what?"

"Never mind," said the other Danny quickly. "I shouldn't have said that. Please don't ask, I really don't want to be at fault for blowing a hole in the universe the size of Belgium. Again."

"'Again'?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, looking suitably abashed.

After a moment spent debating whether he should turn the defense system on again to force the other him to spill the beans, Danny reluctantly dropped the subject and asked, arms folded across his chest, "I take it Clockwork has something to do with this then?"

"Doesn't he always?"

"Probably. So, what's the occasion for this visit?"

"To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Smug bastard just told me I'd figure it out and shoved me through the portal."

"Are you sure you should be insulting the Master of Time like that?" asked Danny, wincing a little at the profanity. He'd never liked swearing.

"Eh, he deserves it. And hey, I'm already dead, what else can he do to me?"

_Oh_, Danny thought, as the other him's little slips finally clicked. _Well. If that's what's happened, I can understand the swearing. _Not quite ready to talk about it yet and hoping future-Danny hadn't noticed the hesitation, he quickly added, "Oh, I don't know, erase you from existence maybe?"

"Nah, I'm too useful. And I think he secretly likes having someone unafraid to call him names," said the other Danny, a cocky smirk forming on his face. Yeah, this was him from the future alright. That or a brilliant actor, which most ghosts tended not to be.

"Sounds about right. Look, shall we go before the security system resets itself?"

"It _resets itself__?_ Jesus Christ, how've you survived this long?"

"Luck, mostly. And Tuck disabled everything in my room."

"Why not disable everything else?"

"Are you kidding? The security practically halves the amount of ghost attacks. I mean, sure, it's nearly killed me a couple times, but I've managed to get my grades up and some nights I get more than five hours' sleep. It's great. But hey, if you're me, why don't you know all this already?"

"Hey, it's been a while," protested the other Danny, following his past self up the stairs. "I can only remember so much."

"How long, exactly?"

"I dunno if I'm allowed to tell you that. Let's just say a couple of decades, alright?"

"But you still look fourteen!"

"Well, yeah. Maybe you haven't noticed yet, but Phantom doesn't change. Like, at all. Gotta say, it was really weird going ghost when my human form was two feet taller."

"Wow. Just…tell me Paulina stopped crushing on you pretty quick? Please?"

"Okay: Paulina stopped crushing on me pretty quick."

"That's a lie, isn't it." It wasn't even a question.

"Yes."

"Do I really want to-?"

"No. No you do not. Please don't ask again."

Danny shuddered. "Yeah, I'm gonna do my best to repress that."

"If it helps, I don't remember me telling you- me. This is gonna get confusing pretty quickly isn't it?"

"Wait, hold on, you _remember_ this conversation?"

"I vaguely remember meeting a future me, a long time ago. But nothing helpful. See, Clockwork's got a friend, Nemmy- Memo- Mono- ugh. I can't pronounce it. But basically she does mindwipes, and I am very grateful for that." He paused, sitting on Danny's bed as his past self settled into his computer chair. "Probably. I don't remember why. I really don't want to."

There was a brief moment of silence as the pair of them imagined what kind of memories this 'Nemmy' would have deigned suppress, but Danny quickly broke it, unwilling to carry on that particular train of thought. "So…what happened?"

"What do you mean?" said the other, entirely aware of what Danny meant.

"Y'know, the whole 'all-dead' thing. When did that happen?"

"That's a bit insensitive."

"I figured I wouldn't mind telling me about it."

Future-Phantom scrutinised Danny's face, serious for the first time since he'd arrived, before finally saying, "You know as well as I do that ghost hunting's a damn dangerous job and, let's face it, it's not like we weren't expecting it. I'm not saying it's soon, but it's not that far away either." Phantom's face softened a little at his counterpart's expression. "If it helps, it was quick, and you did get to say goodbye," he offered, a small smile of sympathy gracing his face. "I'll admit that the first few months were hardly the best times of my li- _after_life, but it was worth it. No doubt about that. And, I guess, maybe it was for the best. Life…life was getting pretty difficult, y'know?"

Danny took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. The other him was right; this lifestyle of his was hardly conducive to a long life, something he'd been all too aware of for a while. But knowing that you probably won't make it to thirty is pretty different to hearing about your passing from your own mouth. "So I guess stopping that from happening isn't on the agenda?"

"No, I'm afraid not. But look at it this way: you've got years to prepare now. Years to acclimatise, to plan, to sort everything out. I promise you it'll be a smooth transition. Freeing, even." He smiled comfortingly. "It'll be okay."

Danny tried to smile back, and was about to say something when he was interrupted by his phone. In a panic, he tried to reach it before the tune could be recognised, but alas, luck was not on his side.

"Beyoncé? Really?"

"Shut up. Tuck did it and he won't tell me how to change it back."

"You and I both know that's not true."

"Shut up. No, not you, Tuck," he said into the phone. "No, I'm not still in a fight. .. No, Jazz isn't annoying me. She's not even here right now. .. Look, it's kind of a long st- _What?_" he demanded, finally acknowledging his future self's frantic gesticulation. "No, not you. What is it?"

"Tell him to call you back," hissed the other Phantom.

"_Why?_"

"Just do it!"

"Ugh, fine. Tuck, I'm gonna have to call you back. .. No, I'm absolutely fine and I definitely don't need backup. .. No, I'm not being forced to say this, I just need to deal with this idiot. .. Yeah. .. Okay. .. Speak later. .. Bye. What's the problem?"

"You realise that by insulting me, you're insulting yourself."

"Please don't tell me this is the only reason you made me hang up on my best friend."

"No, that would be silly. But I remember Sam and Tucker asking where the hell I'd been, and they never said anything about a future- well, me. They didn't know I was here, and they weren't involved with whatever it is I'm here to do. You can't tell them."

"What about your friend Nemmy the Mindwiper? Could just be her."

"Yeah, except no. She's as terrified of the living as the living are of the dead. I can't imagine how long it took to convince her to erase all my- your- ourmemories of this."

"Right," muttered Danny, a frown creasing his brow. "What do we do now, then? Because clearly if Clockwork brought you here, something _really bad_ is going to happen. _And_ nobody else can be involved."

"No humans, anyway. I don't think N- the Mind-wiper has much trouble with ghosts."

"Okay, so ghosts are involved. But then we knew that anyway, because when is it ever _not_ ghosts?"

"Yeah, about that…" the other-Danny trailed off.

"Are you_ kiddi__-_?"

"No," he said firmly. "Just never visit England until about 2040, and stay away from New York for the next few years. They can handle it. I _promise_."

"Do I-? No," said Danny abruptly, shaking his head. "No, I don't want to know. Not even gonna ask."

"Good, because if you'd asked, I'd have had to tell you. Those holidays were fucking _wild_."

-x-

**A/N:** _I'll be honest: this isn't just a oneshot. This would be the first chapter - or part of the first chapter - of a much longer story, one I still want to write but in all likelihood will never get around to._


	6. Every Crack, Every Wall

**Every Crack, Every Wall**

_Theme #52: City | Friendship | 1207 words | Danny F., Amity Park_

They say the city takes care of its own, but they had probably never intended it to be so literal.

-x-

At first, you didn't understand what you were feeling. You assumed it was a part of dying, this feeling of disconnect and dislocation. It was strange and sometimes unsettling, yes, but…it was nice, too. You felt unfocused sometimes, but the fuzzy sense of happiness that tugged at your mind could make up for far more inconvenience than that.

You remember when you first purposefully went ghost. You'd been standing there, in front of the bathroom mirror, willing the change that had crept up on you the other night; you still thought - and hoped - it had all been a bad dream, and you needed the confirmation. A flash of light - as bright as the one that had blinded you and left you screaming not a week before - and in the mirror was undeniable proof. White hair, green eyes, black jumpsuit. You were dead, at least a little bit. The despair you felt then was unlike anything you'd experienced before - that awful realisation that all your hopes and dreams were shattered and gone, everything you'd ever wanted now forever out of reach. Or so you thought - you were so young, so ignorant, how could you have known?

Your horror was perhaps not entirely a bad thing. It brought you to the attention of a creature - no, not a creature, a consciousness, vast and old and infinite in its compassion. It enveloped you, calmed your fear, assured you that everything would be alright, and it was surprised when you understood. Nobody had ever heard it so clearly before, or even acknowledged its existence. It was fascinated, and it kept you company as you fell asleep that night, warmed by its soft reassurances. You awoke that morning, and you felt it still - distracted, yes, but present, and when it realised you were up, it flowed back with a smile. The rest of that day you spent in a cloud of contentment - not even Dash could've brought you down. Sam and Tucker marvelled at the u-turn - you'd been so quiet and anxious recently. You couldn't even begin to explain to them why, so you didn't bother - you just told them, 'I feel better now.' and left it at that.

The next time you tried, you passed out. You'd been feeling confident, you were ready to face your reflection now. The last thing you saw was the light searing your eyeballs before you were drowned by a great crashing tsunami of love. You woke later with a lump on your head from where you'd hit the tiles, and feeling a terrifying absence of the warm presence you'd gotten so used to. You panicked, a little - you locked yourself in your room, and tried to call it back but it wouldn't come. You didn't realise that not all your fear and worry were your own - the consciousness didn't dare hurt you again. You cried, that night.

The next morning, you feigned illness, and convinced your parents that all you needed was sleep. They were worried, but ultimately complied - they had too much to do down in the lab, and their Danny knew his own body, right?

You called again, and when that didn't work you did the only other thing you could think of - you tugged at the strange empty spot in your chest and let the blinding white rings pass over you. Immediately, you felt the presence - your _friend_ - around you, and you realised - your humanity dampened the connection. It had to throw all its strength into making you aware of it, and neither of you realised until it was too late that your ghost was so much more sensitive.

You felt its guilt, then, and you hastened to make it understand that you forgave it. How could you have known, how could it have known? As far as you were aware you were unique - maybe once you would have called yourself a freak, an abomination, but in the few short weeks since the Accident, you've come to accept it. Maybe it would wear off someday and maybe it wouldn't; no point worrying about something you can't do anything about, right? At least, that's what the presence seemed to suggest.

Time passed, and you learned more about you new friend, just as it learned about you. You told it your aspirations - how you wanted more than anything to see the stars close-up and the Earth from a distance - and you told it your fears - both rational and not - and in return it showed you your world, in exquisite detail. You didn't quite understand at first, but slowly you realised what, exactly, your new friend was, and you gave it a name. "Amity," you whispered, "Amity Park. That's…that's you, isn't it?" and a proud, motherly smile pressed at the edges of your mind.

You've been together a long time, now. You never told your friends or family about her - being half-dead and half-alive was logic-defying enough, without adding in a sentient city that mothered you more than your actual mother. Sometimes they wonder how you can be so cheerful about the whole ghost thing and all that it entails - being one, hunting others, getting hurt, screwing up your education, the whole kit and caboodle. Jazz, in particular, is terribly confused. She's tried to have the conversation a dozen times, but it nearly always comes down to her yelling, _"But why aren't you depressed?!"_ and you laughing at her frustration. You know she doesn't _want_ you to be depressed - she's your overprotective big sister, and your well-being is the highest thing on her priority list, even though you insist she should take care of herself first. More than anything she wants you to be happy, but she doesn't understand why you _are_, and when she can't logic her way out of a problem, she gets frustrated.

Maybe you'll explain one day, ask her how you could possibly be unhappy for long when the entire _city_ loves you and supports you? Yes, she's been a little pissy since you learned how to block her out, and subsequently caused the apocalypse because you didn't want her whining in your ear about how cheating was bad. You'll never make that mistake again - you don't ever want her to know what that future-you did to her, and you still have nightmares. You were lucky not to pass out when you arrived - the sheer force of her grief could've taken you out of the picture for a while if you hadn't been able to block it. You still felt her, though, still felt the broken bodies crushed beneath tons of stone and steel and the desperate panic of the survivors, and they haunt you more than anything else ever has.

It's alright, though. That's never going to happen, and no-one but you will ever know the true extent of future-you's insanity. You can continue showing Amity places she'll never see - from Wisconsin to the Ghost Zone, and everything in between - and she can show you the places, the moments you've never had time for - sunrise over the office buildings seen from a bird's eye, the play of light through leaves on a warm summer's day, the true beauty of a rainstorm. You show her the world, and Amity shows you yours.

-x-

**A/N:** _AU where Danny is literally the spirit of Amity Park? If you're curious, there's a little more on Tumblr tagged as 'spirit of amity au'._


	7. Death and Taxes

**Death and Taxes**

_Theme #79: Fuck | PMd3: Ghost King | Humour | Danny F., Clockwork_

Government error in your favour - collect crown.

-x-

2:23pm, and Danny was in hell. An unseasonable heatwave was rolling through the town, and contrary to his hopes, his ice powers only made him feel the heat all the more. Add to that an afternoon English lesson with a sub who had a voice even more monotonous than Mr Lancer's, and he was fighting tooth and nail to stay even slightly conscious. That wasn't to say that the rest of the class wasn't - the last time he'd surveyed the room, he'd noted at least three people dozing happily, and as such he felt very impressed with himself for being so alert in comparison.

Suddenly there was a chill on the back of his head, and he felt something heavy around his neck. Danny blinked sluggishly, and yelped when he finally noticed the massive eyeball floating in front of him; so surprised was he that he toppled backwards, and was saved from a nasty bruise only by a purple-robed ghost's perfect reflexes.

Now the correct way up and mostly awake, he asked the intruders the only pertinent question he could think of: "What did I do_ now__?_"

"Nothing," replied a voice from beside him. "Not recently, at any rate."

The Observant frowned loudly from across the desk. Apparently they disapproved of _any_ words that came out of Clockwork's mouth, not just when he refused to kill a fourteen-year-old boy. Who knew. "We are here to inform you that you will be required in Clockwork's Tower two days hence, at 1pm sharp."

"But that's Thursday, and I have school," Danny protested. He wasn't sure what he was protesting, but as it was an Observant making the request, there was probably good reason to. That, and he'd take long Shakespeare monologues over long rules and regulations monologues _any_ day of the week.

The eyeball ghost frowned louder. "This matter is rather more important than_school_," it said, condescension dripping off every syllable like tar.

"Well, you haven't told me what it is yet, so how am I to judge?" demanded the halfa, crossing his arms like the petulant teenager he was.

"Your coronation, Daniel," said Clockwork, and Danny knew the ghost well enough to hear the immense amusement in his tone.

The halfa scowled. "My coronation."

"Yes," repeated the Master of Time, a grin tugging at his lips, "your coronation. My liege."

"_Why._"

"You defeated Pariah Dark, the previous occupant of the throne to the Ghost Zone, in single combat. Thus the title of Ghost King is passed to you," said the Observant stiltedly.

"But that was like, ages ago. A year and- and something."

"Exactly one year, eight months and twelve days," supplied Clockwork helpfully.

"Yeah, that. Ages ago. I mean, I would've understood if today was my birthday - like, coming of age and all that. Wait,_ is_ it my birthday?" asked Danny, fearing for his sanity. "Clockwork, _please_ tell me it's not my birthday already. I'm not ready to be seventeen yet."

"It's not your birthday."

"Thank god. In which case, why are you telling me this _now_?"

"Paperwork."

"…Paperwork?"

"Paperwork," Clockwork confirmed sadly. "You'd think you could escape it by dying, but _no_, there it is, in the afterlife as well. You might think that you hate paperwork now, but you _don't_, Daniel. Not until you've been doing it for more than five thousand years."

Danny shuddered. Five thousand years of paperwork. It was a testament to Clockwork's character that he hadn't snapped. But, then again, he'd had to have gotten that scar _somehow_…

"So everything is in order, then," snapped the Observant suddenly, "and we will be seeing you Thursday at one o'clock. _Sharp__._"

"Wait, wait, wait!" cried the halfa. "I never agreed to this!"

"There is nothing to agree_ upon_. You do not have a choice in this matter," hissed the eyeball. "_Sir_."

"Clockwork, tell him he's wrong."

"I'm female!"

"Okay, Clockwork, tell her she's wrong."

"She's not wrong, Daniel."

"There, see!" Danny stuck his tongue out at the Observant, but quickly retracted it when his friend's words finally sunk in. "Wait, what?"

"Look, Daniel, I didn't suffer through a year and eight months of otherwise unnecessary paperwork for nothing. You're the Ghost King now. _No backsies_."

"Fuck."

-x-

**A/N:** _This is the last of my pre-written material, I'm afraid - certainly the last of the decent ones. My writing schedule is so eclectic I don't even _have_ a writing schedule, so I can't say if you'll be waiting a few days or a few months. I _do_ have one almost finished so you might see that either later today or tomorrow, but afterwards? I haven't a clue._

_One last note to Anon - oh _gosh,_ thank you very much. Autohaunted is definitely not my usual style (or coherency, probably), and that's partly due to genre, as I rarely write humour (she says in an a/n after a humour short...), and partly due to its potential length - there's just something about multi-chaptered stories that make me write completely differently, and I'm not entirely sure why. _


	8. Something Drastic

**Something Drastic**

_Theme #25: Insomnia | Family/Hurt/Comfort | 2370 words | Danny F., Maddie F._

He's dead; why does he even need to sleep anyway?

-x-

Danny phases through his bedroom window and drifts over to the inert figure beneath the duvet feigning sleep. It's definitely _not_ sleep, though; his chest doesn't rise, the blood in his veins is static and his breaths don't warm the pillow. He's pale, and cold to the touch. Danny peels back the covers, and stares at the figure's dark hair - _his_ hair - and shudders. No matter how many times he does this, he just can't get over the sight of his own corpse.

He wrinkles his nose. Going back, going human, is not nearly as nice an experience as going ghost. Splitting spirit from body is such a euphoric feeling - stepping off the mortal coil, shrugging off the weight of his human body and letting go all of its troubles and urges. Going ghost feels like a sea breeze, fresh and clean and free. By contrast, returning to the land of the living is like wading into a stagnant pond and heading for the deepest part, where the thick and grasping mud envelops your legs, then your torso, your shoulders and head. The weight that's been omnipresent throughout your life, the weight of living, suddenly feels oppressive and claustrophobic. Your body feels too small for you, and you want to expand and expand and _expand_, but you can't, you're contained, uncomfortable in your own skin.

That's what it feels like to be human now. Oh, the feeling fades the longer Danny remains corporeal, but there's always, always that little itch at the back of his mind that he can't ever scratch. It's why he doesn't like to sit still much anymore, it's why he's always doing _something_, be it eating, or watching TV or, hell, even doing his homework.

Danny sighs. He needs to get this over and done with; he can't stay ghost forever. Not yet, anyhow. However uncomfortable living may be, he's still far too young to die. He closes his eyes, places a gloved hand on his corpse's shoulder, and he imagines air rushing through his lungs, his heart pumping furiously in his chest, the feel of gravity acting on his limbs- he opens his eyes again and all he can see is darkness. For a moment he panics - _oh god, I'm dead, I'm dead, my eyes stopped working_ - but then he realises he's just face down on his pillow, and he rolls over. If his circulatory system had been working properly yet, he'd have blushed.

Danny lays still for a few minutes, letting his body recalibrate and get all its systems up and running again. He's learnt the hard way that trying to do anything much more physically demanding than moving his foot in those first five minutes is really not a good idea. Once he feels his pulse steady and his breathing rate stabilise, he slowly maneuvers himself into sitting position and does a few stretches to get rid of the cramp in his muscles. There's no way he'll be sleeping any time soon, he knows that. The ache of readjusting to a living body won't become tolerable enough to lie still for an hour or two yet, and until it fades he needs to find some sort of distraction. Usually, Danny would sit on his computer long into the early hours of the morning, but it's been confiscated; his parents firmly believe that it's the reason he 'sleeps' in class and are dead set on correcting the problem. Well, what could he have said? 'Please don't take my computer away, I don't even sleep in class, I just detach my soul from my body so I can fight ghosts?' Yes, a _perfect_ excuse.

Danny sighs. His room has been stripped bare of anything he could use to entertain himself for a few hours, and he'd even done his homework for once. Sure, there're always the books on his bookcase, but he's read them all at least a dozen times and doesn't even need to have one in his hands to quote it. For a moment, he contemplates just lying down and closing his eyes, but his spirit squirms, railing against the constrictive pressure of his flesh, and he makes his decision; surely there'll be something to occupy himself with downstairs.

Silently Danny pads down the hall, avoiding the creaky spots with ease borne of years of experience, and creeps slowly down the stairs. He forces himself to focus on being quiet, so much so that he doesn't notice that the kitchen light is still on until it's too late.

"Danny?"

Danny startles. "Mum?"

"What are _you_ doing up, young man?" she demands. "It's two in the morning." She's sat at the table, a mug of coffee in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. The guts of what looks like one of the newer ecto guns are spilled out before her.

"I'm aware," he deadpans, and subsequently fails to stifle a yawn. Genuine or no, it softens Maddie's expression, and Danny can see the beginnings of a lecture die on her lips.

"You've got school tomorrow," she warns instead.

"I'm aware of that too."

She sighs. "Well, if you're not going back to bed, don't just stand there. You're making the place look untidy." Danny raises his eyebrows, and looks pointedly at the junk piled on every level surface - from paperwork and food to blueprints and their matching inventions, there is nowhere left uncovered. "Oh, just come over here and help me fix this. If you're awake enough for sarcasm, you're awake enough for science."

"Can't I get something to drink first?" he asks.

"Not unless you're making me another coffee. This one's gone cold," she says, grimacing at the viscous liquid as if it had personally offended her. Danny rolls his eyes, but puts the kettle on anyway. A cup of coffee wouldn't go amiss.

"What are you working on, anyway?" he asks, trying to locate all the necessary ingredients of two coffees beneath the mess.

"Oh, nothing much, in truth," says Maddie. "Just working on the ecto guns' efficiency. These ones are much improved from our first models - those clunky old things only had an efficiency of six percent, can you believe it? - but I'm convinced that ectoplasm is what will be keeping our lights on in the future. If we figure out how to fully unlock all that energy stored in ectoplasm, _everything_ will change. Forget nuclear power - _this_ is the way to go. Ectoplasm is a freely available, naturally occurring and self-replenishing resource, and the only waste product is the glow. It's the answer to all our energy problems - but only if I can figure out how to improve efficiency beyond fifteen percent…"

"And that's 'nothing much'?" scoffs Danny, returning to the table with two mugs of coffee in hand and perching on the chair next to his mother's. "Solving one of mankind's biggest problems is 'nothing much'?"

"No, not when I'm not seeing any way to actually make that happen," she sighs unhappily, toying with one of the gun's components as she waits for her beverage to cool. She glances sideways at her son, and says, "So. You know why _I'm_ up. Why are _you_ up?"

_Mum, every night I leave my body and stay up fighting ghosts, and I'm afraid I might just be a ghost possessing my own corpse._

"No reason," he lies instead. "I just...woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."

"Mhm, and what's the real reason?" she asks, eyebrow raised.

Danny sighs. "...Nightmare," he mumbles. It's not too far off the truth, if you think about it; where else but in a nightmare would dead people take potshots at you on a regular basis?

"Oh hon, come here," says Maddie, pulling him into an awkward side-hug. "If you tell me what it was about, I can explain how scientifically impossible it is. If you want me to, of course."

Danny slips out of his mother's vice-like grasp with practiced ease; he's a fifteen-year-old boy, and fifteen-year-old boys do not willingly get smothered by their overprotective parents, even ones as..._vitally challenged_ as he. Although, generally speaking, most fifteen-year-old boys don't let their elbows go slightly intangible to help the escape. "I'm _fine_, Mum," he insists.

"Oh, come off it, Danny. If you were fine, you'd be in bed asleep." Well, she's not wrong.

"...alright," he acquiesces, and in a split second, the decision is made. The time is right, even if that time is two a.m. He takes a deep breath, and begins. "I dreamt I was dead, but also...not dead. I don't know. I was human, but I could leave my body and be a ghost too. And nobody knew except me, Tuck and Sam. I still went to school and everything - but then there were ghosts attacking. So I left my body and fought them off, but nobody knew it was me. I went back to class, and I'd missed the whole lesson and I failed the test. I said I'd do better, but more and more ghosts came and I felt like I _needed_ to stop them. So I did worse and worse and worse at everything, because I was helping people but nobody knew it was me."

"..Danny?" she asks a little nervously. She's catching on, it seems, that his 'dream' isn't entirely fictional.

"All they saw was my human body laying on a desk, a sofa, a bed, and they thought I was lazy and stupid," he continues. "But really I wasn't even there. I was outside, up in the air fighting ghosts, pretending it didn't hurt.

"...Pretending it _doesn't_ hurt. Mum, I..." Danny starts, but is unable to finish. He'd been doing so well, too - made it so far without even a stumble. And right here, right at the most crucial moment, he's suddenly all choked up and struggling not to cry.

"Danny?" she falters. "What...what are you trying to tell me?"

"I-I'm saying," he chokes out, "y-you shouldn't have p-put a button on the _inside_ of the Portal. I-I was curious, I went inside, I t-tripped a-and then-" He cuts himself off, trying to regain control over his breathing and lower his voice, which has been rising in volume and pitch with every word. He fights back the memories of that blinding light, the scream that seemed to last forever - _his_ scream - and the sensation of every molecule of his body being ripped apart, burned up and iced over, all at once. There's a reason he does not talk about the Accident.

Whatever his mother is thinking, the agonised expression on her son's face is enough to spur her into movement and engulf him in a tight hug. He doesn't even struggle in her grip, and that, perhaps, is more telling than anything else. He shakes silently in her arms, and Maddie suddenly notices how _thin_ he is, how cold and pale and fragile. She knew he hadn't been eating much at home, but had always thought he made up for it when he was out with his friends - one of their favourite spots was the local Nasty Burger, after all, and Sam and Tucker would say something if they saw their friend was hurting. Right?

Apparently not.

Danny's shudders seem to ceasing, and he pulls away - but only far enough that they can speak face to face. "Mum, I-I think I'm dead," he says, and Maddie has a hard time not believing him. With his face tearstained and eyes red, so gaunt and pale under the kitchen lights, he looks like a zombie.

She tries to pull him back into her arms, saying, "Oh, my baby, you're not dead-" but he resists and cuts her off.

"But I _am_. At least a little bit," he insists. "When I turned the Portal on, th-there was this m-massive flash a-and I...I didn't survive that. I _know_ I didn't. But my heart still beats and I'm still breathing, and I don't understand _why_. At least...at least when I go ghost, I don't feel like such a, such an _abomination._ I don't know...I don't know what I am, I don't know why I am…"

"When you...when you go...ghost?" his mother inquires, hesitant and faint. She's hoping this is all a horrible nightmare, induced by late nights and ectoplasmic fumes; Danny can see it in her eyes.

"When I...leave. I don't know how, but the bit of me that's _me_ can just...up and go. Whenever. Wherever. I don't understand why, and I'm so scared, every time, because what if I can't get back? What if somebody finds it, and, and thinks I'm dead?" He laughs at that, but there's no humour in it. "More dead than I really am, anyway. But...what if I can't find it? What if it gets destroyed? What then? Am I dead forever? Or am I already dead, and I just pretend I'm alive?"

"...'It'?"

"...Yeah. It," he says, and bites his lip. He's dropped an awful lot of bombshells tonight, and he hasn't even mentioned the biggest one yet. But it's now or never. And he can only hope that she'll take it alright. "When I go ghost - when I leave - I leave my body. And it's _horrible_. But...but what if I _don't,_ and someone gets hurt, or, or _dies_, when I could have saved them? How could I live with that? What do my grades matter, what does sleep matter, what does _anything_ matter - if I ignore someone I could've helped, and they, they _die_ as a result?" He'd been getting increasingly agitated as he spoke, but suddenly he deflates, all that passion evaporating into the air to be replaced by a weariness that goes beyond exhaustion. "I just...I...I don't know what to do, Mum," he says at last, and it's his voice that breaks her. He sounds so lost, and alone, and _how could she not have noticed?_ She's his _mother_. He's her _son_.

Maddie holds him tightly, and if Danny notices her sobs, then he doesn't mention it. And if she hears him whisper a defeated, _"I'm sorry."_ in her ear, then she doesn't mention that either.

-x-

**A/N:** _For my astral AU on Tumblr, because I _did_ say I'd have to do something drastic if it reached 700 notes. This could be the last one for a while, as I said last time, so savour it, I guess?_


	9. Nothing To Write Home About

**Nothing To Write Home About**

_Theme #84: Space | Sci-Fi/Hurt/Comfort | 2694 words | Danny F._

You died, so you decided to become an astronaut.

-x-

_It seems the day that your house burned to the ground_

_Was the day that you'd always planned to leave anyway_

**I.**

Strange, to think you'd never set foot on terrestrial soil again. Unlikely to ever see another human face, save your own. It hurts, a little, but you imagine what you might have done had you stayed and the pain evaporates. And space, eh? The final frontier! You've dreamt of this moment since nearly the day you were born, and though you're leaving everything and everyone behind you're so much more excited than sad.

You've seen the Earth from space before - in person, once, and the sight took your breath away. You don't have any breath to take these days, but that shining blue pearl, your home for just shy of twenty years, will never leave you. The glint of sunlight off those vast oceans, the twinkling golden lights in the shadow of the Earth, every one a different life, a different story to tell. You spent a day in its orbit, just watching; you've got an eternity to explore the universe, and who knows when you'll see clouds like these again?

You pull yourself away, somehow, and head for Mars. You think you might say hello to Curiosity.

**II**.

Proxima Centauri is the nearest star to your own; it's classified as a red dwarf, but in your eyes it's orange. Astronomers don't always name things literally.

It's taken you more than four years to get here; pretty good going, if you do say so yourself. You were always a fast flier, but this jetpack Axion made for you is a dream come true - you've no idea how it works, but they said it's powered by your own ectoplasmic energy and should, theoretically, last as long as you do.

(Sometimes you can't help but wonder - isn't lightspeed travel supposed to be impossible? or, at the very least, not possible with current technology? And yet, this_ is_ the nearest star, and it_ has _only been four years or so. You try not to question it; the universe might notice your disobedience to its laws and decide to punish you for it.)

(The thought never crosses your mind that, perhaps, the universe has already taken notice, and taken steps.)

There are planets orbiting this star; none so beautiful as those you have left, but the third from the light piques your interest; it's tidally locked, one hemisphere cast perpetually in shadow, but though its substellar point is a desert for hundreds of miles and the antistellar is glacial, the the land is green with life. You hadn't for a moment believed that you'd find living organisms so soon - there's no doubt in your mind that you'd find aliens someday, but in the first solar system you visited? Perhaps the parameters for life are wider than once thought.

The planet is more than you could ever have hoped for; you had always been more interested in alien skies, but the alien life is what fascinates you now. Because they _are _alive, these strange wicker creatures, they can't _not_ be, the spinning architects of the lakeshore and the great pterosaur-like kites fluttering in the forests. It's nothing like Earth; even the plants are a different green. Duller, darker. You suppose it must be due to the star - Proxima Centauri is not nearly so bright as Sol, and didn't you learn, years ago, about how dark colours absorb more light?

It's captivating, it truly is, it's like a thought experiment come true. For the first time, you regret that you will never see home again; to be able to report your observations to the astronomers, the chemists, the biologists!

You realise, quite suddenly, how very little you know, about how you are and why you are and why everything else is. You shiver a little.

**III.**

You never intended to visit the surface of this planet - you're heading over _there_, to that gorgeous nebula you spotted a few lightyears back that you really want to see up close. It's a desert world, this one, and at first glance it seemed completely barren; now that you're crashing headfirst through its atmosphere, you're noticing scrubby patches of greenery and, most curiously, what could well pass for a road. Not brick or tarmac or anything so sophisticated. Just a very well-worn path through the sand dunes and rock.

You're intrigued, for all of the fifteen seconds it takes for you to hit the ground. It hurts.

You awake to a face staring down at you. It's a face covered in fine, pale fur, like that of your own arms but longer. Two intelligent eyes peer out at you from behind eyelashes Paulina would have died for, and fluffy ears the length of your forearms peek out through slits cut in the creature's hood. You wonder briefly if you've woken up in an anime, but no - this face could never pass for human.

You realise all of a sudden that the alien - but aren't _you_ the alien here? - is trying to communicate. At least, it's making noises while looking at you, so you assume that's what's happening. You listen as best you can and, slowly, what seemed at first to be random grunts and growls gain a similar sort of rhythm to any of the terrestrial languages you've heard.

This is an alien, a sentient extraterrestrial being that is doing its level best to talk to you. It doesn't even seem frightened, despite the fact you're still lying in the sandy crater you made when you crash landed (although maybe this has more to do with alien body language than anything else).

You tap your chest, and try to say, "Danny." but you haven't used your voice in so long that all you can manage is a horrible, chest-destroying cough. You ignore the alien's alarm for now, focusing on not literally coughing up a lung until you realise that, oh wait, you don't have any to cough up. Recovered, you automatically apologise, and the alien squeaks in what might be delight - perhaps it's relieved you're not dying. Which is technically true.

You try again. "Danny," you say in your croaky voice, "Danny." You tap your chest, and wonder if they even _have_ names. The alien mimics you, placing a six-fingered hand on its midsection and saying something that sounds a little like "Ria." You're not sure whether that's the alien's name, its species' name, or their word for 'cough', but it'll do for now.

Ria stands, and you're dumbfounded by - not _its_, that sounds rude now that the alien has a name - their height. They're a full four heads taller than you, and though they've been friendly so far it's still pretty intimidating. They start scaling the crater's incline, wide shoeless feet acting like snowshoes, and when they realise you're not following they beckon you with one hand. As you hurry to catch up you wonder if that might be a literally universal gesture, and you take no notice of the splinters of white plastic and metal that litter your landing site.

**IV.**

The grass beneath your hand is red, here. That's not nearly so strange as one might have believed - you've stepped foot on many red-carpeted worlds. It's the trees, really, that interest you - silver leaves don't make much sense to your admittedly limited knowledge of plant biology, but the way they shimmer in the breeze is beautiful. They pick up the twin stars' light and reflect the grass, and it's as if the forest were in flames.

You've been sitting here for hours, just watching the vegetation and the golden clouds. The sky above you is a beautiful shade of orange that makes you think of blue eyes and a kindly smile, but you're not sure why.

There's a vast dome off in the distance, glinting in the suns-light, but you haven't quite mustered the courage to investigate it yet - it's clear by the massive central tower that this is a very technologically advanced species, and that makes you a little wary. The last spaceflight-capable species you came across would have killed you had you not been dead already; death rays don't really work on ghosts, it seems.

You've spotted some of the natives already, wandering around a town or village not far from here. They look like you, but you're reasonably certain that this isn't your homeworld. You're pretty sure the planet you came from had green grass and a blue sky, but you can't quite imagine the exact shade anymore.

Lost in thought, you don't notice the alien creep up behind you until they exclaim in surprise. You spin around, summoning ectoplasmic energy to your hands as you do so - you're not taking any chances, this time. Death rays might not kill you, but they sting like hell.

The man - or so you assume; this species is so similar to your own that you'd be surprised if he isn't male - holds his hands palm up and makes calming gestures at you. "Friend," he says, and it's the first time you've understood someone in... how long? You lost count so long ago, but surely it's been centuries, millennia. In your disbelief, your ectoplasm withdraws and you stare open-mouthed at the alien.

"Friend," he repeats, in a happier tone now. "My name is Theta. What's yours?"

After a moment, you pick your jaw up off the floor and try to answer, but no sound leaves your mouth. How long since you last spoke? How long since your voice vanished? There's no sound in space, but shouldn't you have noticed somehow?

"Can you speak?" he asks, concerned. Yes. No. You shrug dejectedly. "Or write, maybe?" That sounds doable. You summon the green energy that throbs through your veins (do you have veins anymore?) and with one finger you shakily trace an I, an A, and an M in the air before you have to stop and think.

Your name. What is your name?

**V.**

You're not sure how you got here. Or more accurately, you haven't the faintest of clues. Maybe that should worry you more, but the sheer enormity of this place is enough to distract you from thoughts like those. Shelves rise above you like skyscrapers, arranged in rows that seem to go on forever. The furthest point you can see is tinged with a strange greenish-purple, but perhaps it's just a trick of the light.

Books line the shelves. Some are bound in a way that something in you defines as the correct manner, cardboard covers with elaborate illustrations full of paper. Others are less conventional, held together by stone or wood or skin or, once, what looked like cobwebs. You swear some of them move as you pass.

The further you walk, the stranger your surroundings appear. It's so gradual you don't notice it at first, and certainly there's no real physical change - but despite remaining as equidistant as ever, the bookshelves are getting denser with every step. The books here, they're different too; more and more of them are chained to the shelves, and you absolutely, definitely, swear-on-your-afterlife, saw that one move on its own. Energy crackles between their pages, you can _feel _it building up and flowing away through the metal strips nailed to the sides of the bookcases.

Struck by a sudden curiosity, you pick a row at random and observe its inhabitants. A title catches your eye; _Existential Archaeology & Speculative Zoology: A History._ You don't know what that means, but it sounds entertaining.

Your fingers are millimeters from the cover when you're suddenly hoisted into the air by an unreasonably long and hairy arm.

You look up into what should be called a face if only out of politeness; in all honesty it looks rather more like a couple of handbags fused together and dumped on top of a hairy red beanbag. "Ook," it says. You don't speak leather wallet, so you just shrug and smile sheepishly. If you knew how to get out of here, you'd probably be gone already.

The beanbag creature rolls its eyes and leads you through the bookcases to a small clearing containing a comfy-looking armchair and a comically small coffee table that surely could not be of real use to anyone. "Ook," it says again, now gesturing at the chair. You sit. "_Eek._" You're pretty sure you understood that one, or at least the emphasis: _Stay. _It disappears into the forest of shelves.

You wait. And wait some more. You lose yourself in tracing the squiggly patterns on the armrest, and it takes a leathery hand landing on your shoulder to jolt you back into reality. "Ook," it says, and you realise that with its other hand, it proffers a book.

It's bound in black and white and, at more than an inch thick, it's no light reading. There doesn't seem to be a summary, and the cover is bare save a neon green icon that, upon further inspection, turns out to be a little cartoony ghost. The title page is a little more informative; _DANNY PHANTOM AND OTHER NOTABLE GHOSTS OF AMITY PARK_.

The names are uncomfortably familiar, and so are the authors'; you don't know why.

Still, you smile and nod in appreciation of the hairy handbag's gift, and after making it abundantly clear that the book should not, under _any_ circumstances, leave this place, the Librarian ambles away. You hunker down in your comfy chair, and flip to the first page.

**VI.**

You arrived early, they complained. You weren't sure what they meant, or what you were early for, but you decided to stick around and find out. They were nice enough to find you something to sit on - not that you really need it, but you appreciate the thought. It's been days, you think, and it's still just you and the staff. Oh, and the grumpy robot who's apparently been here forever. You waved at it earlier, but the dismal tirade it spouted off rather curbed your desire for conversation.

They're getting close to finishing the construction work, and while you're still uncertain as to what the building's true purpose is, the huge neon sign they're putting up suggests something like 'nightclub'. _Milliways_, it says, and that doesn't sound much like a bar. More like a diner.

You blink, and another day passes. It's a special skill you developed, a long time ago, because while both eternity and infinity are at your fingertips, a lot of it is very boring.

"Sir?" asks a waiter. "Your table is ready. If you'd like to follow me…" You never gave any indication of wanting to eat here, but, well, whatever. It's not like they'll catch you when you inevitably leave without paying. You glide after him.

Milliways is definitely not a diner, and a meal here would probably cost you enough money to buy a solar system. In your (after)life, you've seen a great many wonders and a great many displays of wealth; you've seen opulence. But this isn't opulence, this is _Opulence_, italicised and with a capital O. You're led to a small table by a window and after providing you with a menu, the waiter tells you you have up until forty minutes before the end of the universe to make your selection, and leaves. You're not sure what to make of that.

You end up staring out of the window, mostly. The glamour of the restaurant hurts your eyes after a while, and even after however many centuries it's been, you do still like to look at the stars.

Guests are beginning to arrive and take their seats and the waiters and waitresses flitter about doting on them. They all ignore your little island of calm, and you become aware of a strange emptiness in your chest. You don't remember having ever felt quite like this before, and you're wondering if this is it, if this is the end of you, when a word occurs to you.

_Lonely._

But, you think, you can only be lonely if you've known companionship. What have I forgotten?

Around you, Milliways' many patrons applaud the end of everything.

-x-

_And the vast empire you come through to get here_

_Makes the world look like pennies in my hand._

_(I'll Never Let Go, _Snow Patrol_)_

_-x-_

_**A/N**__: It's been a while, huh? Since I last posted something DP, I sat my exams, got a summer job, started driving lessons, started sixth form, went to Croatia, and bought a new laptop. I wrote this instead of doing my French homework (whoops), and if you get all four crossover references, then please spoil yourself and get yourself a bucketful of your favourite food. _

_(p.s. parts I & III don't reference anything and if they do resemble any published material then that was unintentional.)_


	10. Could've Been

**Could've Been**

_Theme #37: What If | PMd7-9: AU | Family/Hurt/Comfort? | 2993 words | Danny F., Valerie G., Maddie F._

History is made of moments, of split-second decisions and knock-on effects. So, if the dice fell another way…?

**I.**

His parents have been working on this monstrosity for _years_. He always felt some strange mix of jealousy and pride, every time he spotted it - pride, because it was his parents' magnum opus, set to eclipse everything else they had ever created. Jealousy, because- well, it was set to eclipse everything else they had ever created. Since the first drafts of the thing's blueprints, all those years ago, he'd only been seeing less of them. Before - well, not before, but earlier, further from the switch-on date - they had been there for every breakfast, lunch and dinner. They insisted that Sunday night was Family Night, and sometimes on a long weekend they'd go somewhere special. As much as he'd grumbled and moaned - he _was_ a teenager, after all - he'd enjoyed those days. From making faces at the camera to devastating his opponents in Monopoly, he'd not-so-secretly relished the time spent with his family.

He misses it.

These days, he and Jazz are lucky if they see their parents once in twenty-four hours. They're always down in the lab, keeping odd hours and only rarely venturing into the kitchen to acquire coffee and a sandwich. Jazz is the one who nags him to tidy his room, do his homework, do the laundry, just like Mum once had. He takes over the responsibility of dinners pretty quickly, once he realises that his sister is the worst cook to ever grace the surface of the planet, and that, _no_, no matter how hard you might want to, you cannot live on takeaways alone. Jazz spends increasing amounts of time at the library, and he with his friends, just to be out of the house.

So when the Great Switch-On comes around, when years of planning and inventing result in such a catastrophic failure, when Sam tries to convince him to take a step inside-

-he says 'No.'

**II.**

He's awoken by an all-too-familiar burst of cold air, rising from his lungs and out into the much warmer air of the bedroom. It's late, probably late enough to be early. The bed is warm and comfortable and he is reluctant to leave, but he knows that despite his exhaustion he won't be heading back to Slumberland any time soon. He sighs; can't the ghosts just leave him alone for once? But no, apparently not. "Just what I need," he grumbles to himself, "a working vacation." He reaches inside himself, and flips the switch to spark the transformation, shuddering as the glowing rings strip away his humanity. He wonders if he'll ever really get used to it.

He floats through the dark mansion, absently watching the dancing shadows cast by his ghostly glow as he searches for the intruder that set off his early warning. He hears footsteps above him - loud and heavy in the stillness; his dad, probably. No ghost would be so noisy, and nobody else here has the kind of weight needed to put such force in every step. Turning invisible and intangible, he pokes his head up through the floor and has to stifle a gasp. His father, as expected, trudges down the corridor, but behind him lies the reason the ghost-boy is awake.

Danny swiftly grabs his dad's feet, and phases them through the floor and into a bathroom before the ghost vultures have a chance to strike. Family safe, he phases up through the ceiling, fully prepared for round two - except the birds flee as soon as he makes himself known. He frowns. Too easy. _Far_ too easy. He turns and, sure enough, the difficulty presents itself. A humanoid ghost, red-eyed and clothed in white. The cape is a little OTT in his opinion, but that might just be the jealousy speaking. Every time he suggested a superhero cape, his friends immediately shot him down; life is so unfair.

"Ah, bright boy," it says, a smile stretching its way over the ghost's teeth to reveal pointed fangs. It seems amused, and that only irritates Danny more.

"Oh, whatever," he says, "I was aiming for the _birds_, but you'll do!" He throws a knockout punch, fueled by ghostly strength and teenage hostility, but the ghost catches his fist and launches him smoothly into the wall. It _hurts_, and he wonders if the crunch he heard wasn't just the wall. This ghost was _fast_.

Time for a new tactic; no more fooling around. Danny charges, quickly gathering speed, only for the ghost to seize him by the throat and throw him to the floor again.

"My vultures were supposed to bring the big idiot to me, but you'll do," the ghost mimics, smirking in its apparent victory. "Danny Phantom - _right_?"

"You- you _know_ me?" gasps Danny. This isn't right. Something about this ghost screams wrongness in a way no other spectre he's ever met has.

"Of course I know you!" it laughs, and floats backwards through the wall. The ghost-boy is about to follow, but something stops him - this ghost, so easily had it defeated him, so easily had it countered each and every move. The smirking, the smugness - that wasn't just arrogance, that was _confidence_, and not false confidence either. This ghost is stronger than any other he's faced so far. This is a _trap_, one Danny could conceivably not get out of alive - or as alive as usual, anyway. He isn't prepared for this - doesn't even have a thermos on him. If he was going to fight this ghost and win, he'd need backup, and three o'clock in the morning is not a good time for that.

A decision is made, and Danny sinks quickly through the floor before the ghost realises its trap failed. He'll go back to his room, for now; hopefully it would get bored and leave now that there's nothing to fight, but if it doesn't his room is close enough to the rest of his family's that he'll sense the ghost if it comes this way and he can raise the alarm. His parents aren't exactly _good_ ghost hunters, but they're not _bad_ either, and there's always the RV. If all goes well, in the morning he'll convince his sister that they need to leave. Jazz can be frighteningly persuasive when she wants to be, and what better reason for an overprotective sister than a scared little brother? He hates the idea of running, but he hates the idea of dying more.

**III.**

"Um, is it me, or is this the worst Spirit Week in the history of Casper High Spirit Weeks?" Sam asked her friends, gesturing to the students trudging about the hall. They seemed almost zombie-like in their aimlessness, and many looked as if they had just barely found the willpower to find a clean shirt this morning. Heads bowed and shoulders hunched, they were the sorriest and least spirited bunch of people Sam had ever seen, and she attended goth poetry recitals every weekend.

The snatches of conversation the three overheard weren't much better - from the jocks despairing over their future careers - or lack of - and the popular girls worried sick over their appearances, to the nerdier types wondering aloud if they would ever find true love, or if they really were smart enough to get into their university of choice. They were a mess, truly, and no matter how much Sam hated most of them, she couldn't help but feel at least a little sorry for them.

"And to make it worse, we're all gonna have to sit through Jazz's idiotic speech when she tries to _'put the 'I' back in 'spirit'!'_ or some other _nonsense_," growled Danny. Apparently whatever had gotten to the population of Casper High, it had gotten to him as well. It felt like she and Tucker were the only ones in the entire school who weren't drowning in their own misery. Well, besides Jazz, who was practically _skipping_ down the hallway. "The heck is _she_ so happy about?" Danny muttered bitterly, levelling an irritated glare at his sister's retreating back.

"Don't ask me," said Sam with a shrug. "_I'm_ usually the sour one around here, but compared to everyone else, I'm the Goth Bird of Happiness." It was completely surreal. Almost like she'd been transported to a mirror world where everyone was the opposite. Hell, with the way their lives had been recently, that wouldn't even be that far of a stretch - the only thing that had her convinced that this was the same universe as the week before was that Paulina still cared more deeply about her makeup than her friends.

"Me too," agreed Tucker, indeed sounding as cheerful as he'd ever been. "And we're the only two people in this school who _haven't_ had a session with Doctor Spectra."

Something in Tucker's comment made Danny pause. "Wait a minute, let me see something," he said, grabbing for his friend's omnipresent smartphone. The lockscreen presented no problem, much to Tucker's annoyance, but Danny's increasingly frantic expression made him stop before he'd even started. The ghost-boy flicked through his friend's photo album desperately, before demanding, "Tell me you didn't delete all those photos, Tuck. _Please._"

"Um...I thought you wanted them all destroyed, so, well, I _did_..."

Danny swore, and punched the lockers. Sam and Tucker exchanged glances at this - their phantom friend _never_ swore. Not even when Dash had chucked him in his locker for the fourth time that day, and right after he'd been smashed into the side of a building hard enough to leave a dent. "Ugh," he said at last, rubbing his knuckles gingerly. "Never mind. I just- no. It doesn't matter. It was a dumb idea anyway."

"Are you sure?" asked Sam. "Didn't seem like nothing to me."

"I'm sure," he huffed. "I'm just tired. Not thinking straight. All these darn ghosts are really getting to me, and my parents aren't helping. I don't know how Jazz does it."

The trio trudged off to their first class - first, and only. The rest of the day would be taken up by Spirit Week-themed events, though frankly everyone would have preferred a day of normal lessons.

They were in the front row when the last ceremonial domino fell, activating the no longer harmless Spirit Sparklers.

**IV.**

"Great news, sweetheart!" exclaims her father from over by the window. "I'm getting one last chance! I convinced them to let me guard what's left of the research lab while they rebuild." he tells her, beaming.

"Oh, that's great!" she says, smiling encouragingly. "How many of your employees can you put on it?"

His face falls at her inquiry, and the smile fades. "I...don't have any more employees," he sighs. "I have to guard it myself. At night. In _that_," he says, gesturing to a dark blue uniform on a hook by the door.

"...Nice," she says glumly. "And if things get worse, you can use that outfit to deliver packages." She's not _trying_ to be mean - it's been a long and difficult week, and Damon won't hold it against her. The _both_ of them have been snappish and irritable; watching your entire life crumble around you is not a pleasant experience for anyone.

"Which reminds me!" he exclaims, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "This arrived while you were at school today - from Wisconsin?" He hands her a large - and heavy - package, and is about to question her further - _what did you order, why did you order it, why from Wisconsin?_ - but his wristwatch bleeps urgently before he can even start. "Whoa - don't want to be late. Bye, sweetie," he says, slipping the uniform into a bag and heading out. He can interrogate his daughter later - he can't afford to mess this up.

Valerie frowns at the box. It seems innocuous enough, but she never ordered anything - where would she have gotten the money? Unless this is one's Dad's surprise presents- but no, he seemed just as surprised as she, and he would have mentioned it sooner, so he could be there when she opened it. Cautiously, she picks off the tape with her nails - such useful tools they were! - and lifts the flaps. There's a slip of paper, nestled atop a sea of bubblewrap. She unfolds it, and the furrow in her brow grows deeper.

_Heard about your recent ghost troubles._

_Hope this helps._

_-Vlad_

Well, if that wasn't incredibly suspicious then she'd eat her headband. She'd understand, maybe, if the package had been sent from Amity Park or the surrounding towns; everyone at Casper High knows how she'd been brought low by ghosts. But Wisconsin? That...is a little creepy.

Still, she ought at least find out what this 'help' is. She pushes the top layer of packaging aside, and gasps. This...this is a _gun_. A sleek, fancy, futuristic-looking gun, but a gun all the same. She unwraps it carefully, feels its weight in her hand, inspects it from every angle. She feels something give way under her fingers, and jerks the gun away from herself immediately - good thing, too, because the heat from the blast it emits feels like a furnace. If she'd reacted any later, she could have blown her own brains out. Holy _shit_. Who in their right mind would send something like this to a _fourteen-year-old_?

"Don't know who you are, _'Vlad'_," she says faintly, "but if this thing does what I think it does, I'm reporting you to the police."

**V.**

"Come on mister pouty-pants, this weekend is supposed to be about us!" exclaims Maddie, making expansive gestures at their surroundings. "Those DALV people sent this private jet, just for _us_ - how perfect is _that_?" If she started jumping for joy right now, Danny would not be surprised in the least. It is pretty cool, all things considered - sure, he's been on a plane before, and he's most certainly flown alone, but the luxury of a private jet is something he has never experienced. However, he's still pissed at having his weekend plans ruined, and this plane feels entirely too much like something Vlad would own for comfort. There's something wrong here that's setting him on edge, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

"Do you want the truth," he asks snappishly, "or one of those little white lies that doesn't hurt your feelings?"

His mother sighs. "Forget it, Danny. Just look out the window at that warm, sunny Florida coastline…" she starts dreamily, before being cut off abruptly by the crackle of the intercom.

"Folks, this is your captain speaking. If you look out the window on your left, you'll see the cold, bleak Colorado Rockies-"

"The _Rockies_?" Danny yelps, the sense of dread suddenly feeling a lot more rational. "That's nowhere _near_ Florida, what gives?"

"-and if you look out the window on your right, you'll see me, bailing out of the plane before it careens out of control, _heh_, and crashes!"

The sole passengers of the plane briefly share panicked expressions; just as the pilot announced, there he is, visible out of the right-hand window and waving cheerfully as he recedes into the distance.

Maddie reacts instantly and sprints to the recently vacated cockpit, Danny a moment behind but hot on her heels. She slides into the captain's chair and puts all of her considerable strength into pulling the controls, to no avail.

"The controls are jammed, Danny, how do we get out of this?!" she yells over the warning bells. Maddie has never been one to panic, but there's an edge creeping into her voice that makes Danny shiver. She's always been the one to keep a level head, always the voice of reason in a crisis, always the one with a plan when the world goes to hell, so if _she's_ panicking...

But no. It doesn't matter. They're trapped in a failing plane and the all-powerful Maddie is out of ideas, but he knows _one_ way they can survive. If she hates him for this afterwards... well, at least she'll be alive to do so. He_ pulls_ at the cold spot next to his heart and the cold washes over him like the kiss of the mesosphere, leaving him bereft of his mortality. There's a split second of readjustment, then he plunges his gloved hands through the pilot's seat to grip his mother's shoulders-

-and he _screams_.

Electricity courses through his body, and though he has never truly been certain that he has anything like a circulatory system in ghost form, it sure feels as though every vein and capillary is on _fire._ Distantly, he feels his control over his powers slipping and sliding like Jazz in an ice rink, but the pain is worse than anything he's ever experienced, nearly, and there's nothing in him free from the blinding agony to care.

He hears a second note to his two-part harmony of anguish, hears the crash of a heavy metal object smashing glass - _isn't aeroplane glass supposed a lot more durable than that?_ - hears the ear-splitting rushing noise as the air is sucked out of the plane, and, all of a sudden, he can breathe again.

For a moment he just lays there, utterly spent from so many transformations in rapid succession. His fingers twitch spasmodically from the remaining current, but he slowly regains his self-control. He sits up carefully, waiting for the pain to return, but immediately throws caution to the wind when he notices his mother, clinging to the pilot seat with one arm and clapping her hands over her ears as best she can. A rivulet of crimson trickles from her nose.

Danny's on his feet immediately, calling forth the white rings despite the shooting pain in his chest, and soon enough he's sailing through the air with Maddie in his arms. He scans the ground for any signs of civilisation, but finds noth- _there!_ A road! It's distant, but he can get there. He has to.

"D-_Danny?_"

Her voice is fragile, and the horror in it is nearly enough to break his heart.

-x-

**A/N:** _I said I wouldn't do Phanniemay this year, but then I saw today's theme and I remembered that I'd written _this_... I intended to do ten of these, which is why I've sat on it for months, but I've run into something of a block for the other five. One day. One day I will write the rest. But hopefully that will be _after_ exams - I did my French oral last Friday, but the first actual exam is Monday afternoon. Wish me luck!_

_Also, concerning the last chapter - MsFrizzle, you are correct: V is Discworld, and VI is Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. IV is Doctor Who, on Gallifrey - I haven't been an active fan in a while, but I do remember that 'Theta Sigma' was the Doctor's alias when he was at the Academy. II I never expected anyone to get - it's from the book _Proxima_ by Stephen Baxter, probably one of my favourites but also quite depressing._


End file.
